everyone was happy all of the time and we were all forgiven
by the ocean weekender
Summary: After the movie, Thomas takes matters into his own hands: becomes a sort of queer vigilante, quits his job, leaves without telling anyone and has lots of fun with his boyfriend. Alternatively, Thomas Barrow deserves all the love and happiness in the world and you bet your ass I give it to him


here is the part where everyone was happy all of the time and we were all forgiven

After the movie, Thomas takes matters into his own hands: becomes a sort of queer vigilante, quits his job, leaves without telling anyone and has lots of fun with his boyfriends. (Alternatively: Thomas Barrow deserves all the love and happiness in the world and you bet your ass I give it to him.)

title from Richard Siken "litany in which certain things are crossed out"

trigger warnings for depression, suicide, war and ptsd, panic attacks, conversion therapy- Thomas's entire show story line basically

Richard approaches like the cool hand of a saint. Thomas feels the world right itself again. He kisses him. All the air leaves Thomas' lungs. When he turns and walks up the stairs after Andy, the world is a little more grey than it was just two minutes before. He fiddles with his hands and- consequently- the pendant, not wanting to look like some awkward hall boy after his first fumble in case Richard glances back at him one last time Richard does two things.

He _does_ make Thomas feel like some awkward hall boy after his first fumble.

He doesn't glance back.

The locket is cool against his palm and Thomas reminds himself that he has a lot more than a glance cupped in his hand, but still. It stings just a little, in all the worst places.

He expects it to be a great revelation- a scheme of some sorts, at the very least. Some kind of horrible, angry mess that he has orchestrated for the misery of all those around the infamous variety that'll get him cast into Dante's inferno.

Perhaps this is what getting old feels like, but there's no grand scene or- or- even an argument or a consistent narrative. Just work and being the butler and Richard's letters and all the other servants giggling for days over what happened the day the king and queen came to visit and Thomas isn't a part of it. He _was_, as much as any of them, but he wasn't _here_ and he feels the old feelings creeping up on him again. It stings a lot, in all the worst places. Thomas doesn't know what to do with these feelings except cause trouble, so on his half day he walks to the village and stubs his cigarette out on Carson's garden wall when he's not looking and then catches the next train for York. Part of him is tempted not to stop there, but to carry on until he's in London, or Manchester. Anywhere, really, somewhere big and electric that'll crawl into his bones and rattle them about until he stops feeling so restless.

But he has a job to do and Thomas Barrow will always do his job. In his jacket pocket, the little rectangle of ivory card feels like a burn over his heart and he wishes he could tell if it is a good or a bad feeling, because it doesn't feel like either. No one, he assures himself as his anxiety increases with every yellow field that blurs past the window, absolutely no one knows who he is in York and if it goes wrong he can flee back up to Downton and never think of this again. Is that what Downton is to him, then?

Before he can answer that question he disembarks and tries to remember the way to the police station. Richard's card is burning in his jacket pocket and last night in his room he couldn't quite stop himself from admiring it under the lamp light, the red seal and the royal crest and the cardstock that costs more than a month's wages. A part of him he thought long dead and buried is in awe of that card and everything it stands for; the part of him that blushes like a naive hall boy and was cruel to William and is always thinking of Richard's smile. If nothing else, Thomas had hoped all he's gone through had killed _that_, yet last night he was disgusted to realise that he's still there after all, alive and quivering with each breath in and out and now he knows he is still there, Thomas is aware of him all the time. The police station looms before him, inconsequential from its surroundings. He nearly runs away, every instinct he has is screaming like the exposed end of a nerve. _Richard must have been scared too_. Which probably isn't true- he can't imagine Richard being scared of anything, he isn't like Thomas- but the point still stands. Richard came and saved him. He wonders how many of the men in _Turtons_ have a Richard. Probably lots of them do, but they were dancing with them and now their Richards are sharing the next cell along.

It's go in there and fail and run away, run away before going in there, or go in there and succeed and _then_ run away. _Even if Richard was scared, he didn't leave_. More to be the sort of man Richard would want than anything, Thomas goes in.

"Not many of the queers left here," the Sergeant grunts to him, leading Thomas to the front desk and then walking behind it. He either hasn't recognised Thomas from his own time in the cells or he wasn't on duty the night of the raid, Thomas doesn't dare push his luck. "Most of 'em been transferred out somewhere- proper prisons, see, where there's space. Only five or six left here."

"Then His Lordship will be in luck," Thomas replies coolly, as if they're chatting in the servants' yard over a cigarette and the man doesn't have any power over him. He _doesn't_: Thomas is an unknown face to this man and he has a royal card and the times of the next five trains back to Downton memorised. He feels a bit better. "The less perverts running about the better."

"Too right... what d'you say His Lordship wants 'em for again?"

The Sergeant and men like him are all too happy to bend and bow and boot-lick to their betters and Thomas is counting on it. "There was... well, a nasty bit of business shall we say, with a servant on the Royal Visit and- " he leans on the desk and motions for the Sergeant to come close- "this is obviously strictly between you and me, but His Lordship needed to keep the servant quiet. And this _servant_ decided he'll keep quiet if the dirty perverts are set free. But not a word of this to anyone, you understand?"

Nodding, the Sergeant rubs his hands together that way men over forty do and pulls down a heavy black ledger from under the desk. Names scrawl in blank ink under his damp fingers, name after name after name and Thomas sees one that probably _isn't_ his but looks similar enough upside down and in scruffy handwriting that he nearly forgets his next line. He follows the Sergeant's finger tracing down one column and onto the next page. "Of course you'll want proof of my identity," he says breezily and pulls Richard's card out of his pocket the way he practised last night in front of the mirror so the Sergeant is immediately met with the Royal Crest. In the mirror, it looked like a gunshot wound.

"Oh," the Sergeant sputters, face scandalised and purple. "Oh yes, of course sir, I understand. Let me just go tell Franky- DI Franklin, I mean, to go on his break and then we'll see about signing 'em out, sir."

Thomas pockets the card and smiles thinly, "Good man."

Some of the men stop long enough to shake his hand or mutter their thanks, most just flee as quick as they can into the crowded streets where no one looks at them twice. Thomas nods to the last one, says "Not a word to anyone!" and turns round and Chris is there. He blinks. "Hello," he stutters out, unable to think of what else to say when you are two queers and you were arrested together and now you are not. Chris has lost that easy smile and his heart breaks, which is strange because he didn't think he had any part of him left to hurt. "Hello," Chris replies. "Thanks for-" he nods back the way they've come and sticks his hands in his pockets.

He says "It's fine" though it's not fine because that's not Chris' fault. All Chris did was open up a whole new world for him and showed him men _like him_ who are also working class men _like him_.

Originally he planned on being cool and calm and confident, because from experience he can say that's what you need from the people around you when you've spent the past two nights sleeping in a cell. But Thomas is tired and he nearly spent a night in a cell and perhaps he should have asked Richard to get the others out, only the truth is after the Sergeant told him he was free to go he didn't think about Chris once. He recognises the look in Chris' eyes. The one like a feral dog is about to snap at anyone who comes near. "Do you live nearby- I mean, not like that- I found- I mean, I just mean do you need- want- need me to walk you home?"

Chris sighs, "Come on then." He doesn't stop to check if he's following. Thomas supposes he kind of deserves that.

Thomas hurries after him and then doesn't know what to do with his hands. Eventually he asks, "Are you alright?"

"As right as can be, I suppose."

Awkward silence.

"How did you manage to get us out?"

"Oh, there was- Richard, the bloke who got me out, used his card and then he gave it to me."

Chris frowns, "A card? A card which can get perverts out of prison?"

"Here-" Thomas passes it over, careful not to smudge the red seal and watches his face change. Confusion. Anger. Confusion. Settling eventually into the tumultuous mix of feeling that can be described only as _oh_, something a bit like grief and understanding all at the same time. He refuses to take it back when he proffers it to him the same way another man might wield a knife. "Keep it." The _in case of next time_ is silent but still heard. For a second he thinks Chris might throw it away, or burn it somehow, only he does none of that and stuffs it into his pocket.

"What do you want?" Chris asks, like it's a question Thomas can answer in public as they walk through the busy streets. It's market day and under the bustle of feet he can hear the town clock strike one- they're in a part of the city Thomas doesn't know, getting deeper and deeper into the terraces and factories where men like them live work and die.

"Do you have anyone?"

"I danced with you didn't I?"

"Not just- I just mean... someone who could look in on you, to make sure you're alright?"

"Two doors down I've a friend- a bloke like us. He'll do."

It doesn't feel right looking at Chris and not seeing a smile. Even his eyes are- not sad, but guarded and wary- tense. He is not going to be caught out the next time the police raid a club- if he ever goes to _that_ sort of club again- and Thomas feels his old fury boiling up inside his ribcage, fury at the world for doing this to Chris, for breaking his trust in whatever happiness he finds in the future. _It's not fair_.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"For everything, I suppose." This entire situation feels a lot like his fault.

Chris shrugs again, though maybe it's Thomas' imagination but it looks slightly more at ease. "At least you came and helped."

"That's what anyone should have done."

"But we're not living in a world like that, and you did it anyway. Thanks."

He doesn't know what to say to that so he doesn't say anything.

"Are you and Richard _friendly,_ Thomas?"

His head shoots up and he stammers out an excuse and finishes with, "How did you know?"

"If a bloke gets a pervert out of a tricky situation, either he likes you a lot or he's a good man," he scoffs, finally falling into step besides him. "And I don't believe in the second type any more- don't look so worried, I'm not offended. 'Spose at least something good came out of all this, ey?"

Thomas laughs weakly and lights a cigarette. He offers one to Chris but he waves it away. "I think he might be both."

"Ah," Chris says, turning to face him at the doorway of the narrow terrace where he must live. Red brick and back to back housing, probably a stone's throw away from whichever factory it is Chris told him he works at and built by the industrialists who first set up shop so their employees had no excuse to be idling on their way to work. "You'd best hold tight to him, then."

"I'm sorry," Thomas says again. Net curtains are twitching in the neighbouring houses and he suddenly finds he can't bear the idea of leaving Chris alone to deal with all of this.

His grin twists as he leans against the wall of the porch and folds his arms in contemplation, "Me too."

"It might turn out alright in the end- the house where I work, everyone found out about it and they got on with it. It might turn out alright for you," he tries.

A slow headshake, "I don't think..."

"Don't think what?"

"I don't think- and maybe I'm wrong- if them (he jerks a thumb in the direction of the neighbours) and the rest of the world can't accept me _properly_, then I don't want them to accept me at all." A beat. His face turns very earnest and young, "Does that sound stupid?"

"Not to me." It's hitting too close to home for comfort, but it doesn't sound stupid. Not at all.

"Only... I told my mam and dad and they were _funny_, you know the way people get when you tell them sometimes? I were only sixteen and one night I heard 'em talking downstairs- didn't listen to what they were saying but I thought 'this is it'- then the next morning, was Sunday morning, we didn't go to church. Mam and Dad sat me down in the kitchen with me brothers and sisters and said they had decided that seeing as they clearly weren't going to chuck me out, then they may as well be completely accepting of me. That was- that was nice-" his voice cracks and Thomas can tell he's trying not to cry. Shit, _Thomas_ is trying not to cry.

"They've been nice about it ever since. Said when I found a bloke to settle down with they want me to bring him for dinner. And I just since then, I just think either people have to- have to _completely _ accept what we are and not just- not just- not just-"

"Tolerate us."

"Yeah. Else if they don't, _we've_ got to trust them, and trust if we're nasty to them one time they won't call the police and that... that don't feel right, you know?"

"I understand."

Chris smiles, "I know you do. Shit, give it fifty years and the world might understand us. I might as well at least try and last 'til then."

He remembers what Richard said to him that night and has to smile, "Fifty years ago no one thought we'd learn how to fly." Despite everything, he starts to feel slightly better and he can tell Chris is too- people just have to be people and the world will catch up with them eventually.

"Well then," and Chris- he _steps forward and claps him into a hug_.

When he pulls back, he laughs when he catches sight of the look on Thomas' face. "If I was _really_ a queer, then would I hug a man in front of all the neighbours?" he teases. If Thomas tried smiling as wide as he does, he thinks his face might crack open with the strain of it. Chris drops his voice and his gaze to the sleeves of Thomas' coat and he feels his breath catch in his chest like the surface of a frozen lake cracking open as he remembers how he had been so happy to dance with Chris that he hadn't thought twice about rolling his shirt sleeves up. "Will _you_ be alright?"

He says without thinking "I always end up alright."

Perhaps Chris believes him or perhaps he doesn't; when he looks up he is smiling again like the whole exchange didn't happen. "I'll see you around, then, Thomas."

"Good luck," Thomas intones, already turning away and starting down the street. Unbidden, he feels his eyes start to sting and blinks back tears, unsure why he's crying. He can't hear any indication of commotion from the other end of the street which he takes as a good sign. When he finally finds his way back to the train station, the clock is striking two. The next train to London is just pulling in and he snatches up a newspaper and settles down on a bench, preparing to wait the half hour for the train going the other way back to Downton.

On the first page he comes to, there's a tiny column advertising a job at a clockmakers on Carnaby Street. He bites his lip and checks the time. The train idling ten feet from him leaves in four minutes and there's no queue at the ticket booth. It's his half day and he is butler and he wasn't butler for the royal visit and he doesn't owe them anything, does he? Three minutes later he is sitting in a carriage and it is too late to get off the train if he changes his mind. He changes his mind a hundred times on the journey down, but as he steps out onto Carnaby Street in the dying autumn light with the promise of a job in four weeks' time, he's glad he couldn't get off the train.

_Fuck them_ he thinks as the train pulls out of York.

_Fuck them_ he thinks as the train pulls into Downton.

He goes to see Carson three days later, after he has gotten off the phone ordering all that a house needs to run. The old git is all too happy to go back to Downton and it makes Thomas taste bitterness in his mouth- before he leaves, because this conversation is a secret anyway, he asks, "How can you give your life to that family, Mr Carson? They even need their newspapers ironed."

Secrecy is the price Carson has had to pay to get his job back and Thomas is starting to regret starting this train of thought, because he knows he isn't going to like the answer. The disappointment on that craggy face is not new to him but it stings all the same.

"There are some things in life that one must do, Thomas. For a greater thing than yourself. It is not belittling or demeaning to follow the way of things. You never understood that."

"No one deserves to have their lives taken by rich people."

His face is unreadable, "You could never understand."

All Thomas understands is boots to the face and long, long stretches of loneliness. He wants to scream, yell, cry swear, spit, tell him he's not foul. A great wave boils inside of him and he leans forward, knuckles white on the arms of the chair, preparing to talk about what they don't talk about because he'll be gone in three weeks and good riddance. He feels the pendant shift in his breast pocket over his heart. Though it screams against his very instinct, he sits back. The tide goes out. He can argue, yes- for days, if given the chance. But it just isn't worth it.

"Farewell, Mr Carson. I wish you and Mrs Hughes all the best." He stands.

"That's it?"

Thomas turns back to him, wanting all twenty years to be written on his face and also to be as impassable as an iceberg all at once. He wants whichever will get him to _understand_, damn it. One day, they will all see the world by more than just the single candlestick with which they view it now and when that door opens he does not actually (surprisingly) want them to find it rotten. At last he replies, "That is all I have to say to you," and sees himself out. Lingers on the porch, hoping maybe he's sparked a revelation or been the catalyst for an epiphany and then quickly realises what a fool he's being. _The old git's probably gone right back to his gardening_. Huffing a laugh at himself, he starts the walk back up to the Abbey. Luncheon will be served soon and for now he is still butler.

Two weeks later, when the papers say that the King and Queen are moving back south again and are staying for two week with the Princess Margaret, there's a letter from Richard- the King and Queen are indeed close by and so is he, with a day off and the chance to book a lovely discreet little room in Thirsk? Thomas replies by telegram- quicker. All it says is _yes_.

After the first searing, blazing kiss, Richard finds the pendant Thomas has kept in his pocket, "You kept it?" he asks, face amazed.

"Of course," Thomas replies. How could he do anything else?

"So you want to stay in service then?" Richard asks. He's naked, they both are. They've just had sex of the sort Thomas hasn't had in years, even longer- quick, hot, dirty, trousers round ankles and bent over a desk because I need you _now_ sex. Perhaps their first time should have been different- he recalls Richard expressing as much, once; how he wanted to touch Thomas like he was made of glass their first time together, and Thomas can't help but feel he's gone and ruined it and also shown himself to be needy and desperate in the process.

"Hey," a strong hand with long fingers cups his cheeks _and_ manages to place the filter of a cigarette between his lips in one fluid movement. "What's wrong?" Thomas looks up and the expression on his face changes. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

He won't ever admit it, but no one has ever asked him that question before.

Tentatively, he takes the cigarette in one hand and reaches up and cups Richard's fingers with the other, "You could never hurt me." He winces. Too soppy, too soft, too much.

He smiles forlornlyand looks away, "I don't think that's true."

Thomas is going to kill everyone who has ever made this man think that. Frowning, he tugs him down to sit half on top of him on the floorboards, still naked and shivering now and again from the draught coming under the (locked) door. That sad look belongs on _his_ face, not Richard's, never Richard's. "Well I _know_ it's not true," he states firmly, making him look up to meet his eyes, the only trouble is his eyes are so beautiful that he loses his train of thought and stumbles over what he was going to say next. "And- and you can stop thinking so low of 're perfect."

He smiles and it is perfect. He' the most handsome man Thomas has ever seen in his life. "Hardly._You're_ perfect, though. Being with you makes me feel..."the sentence remains unfinished but in a way that Thomas has no doubts means all good things.

He has to scoff, still. "I'm not perfect, I'm a- a- a- a fucking mess. And an arsehole. And-" he glances at the scars bisecting his wrists and thinks of the purple stains on his thigh as he traces a line up to his wounded hand. "And- and you just, you shouldn't think of yourself that way, alright? I like you just fine."

Out of the corner of his eye he catches the smiles that spreads even further across Richard's face as he ducks his head to kiss him- he's always smiling when he's with him and the that that he can make a man so happy is impossible.

"Make me."

Their second time having sex still isn't in a bed, but it is slow and gentle. It's dizzying (to them both) that maybe one day they'll kiss so many times they'll lose count.

There's _so much_ that there's a delay between Richard grasping hold of his hand (not his good one) and him realising. His grasp is tight enough he can't pull away and make it seem casual. "I'll make you a deal," teases Richard in a low voice that shoots straight along Thomas' spine. "You think better of yourself and I'll suck you off."

Warm hot kisses trail down towards his groin- first bites his bottom lip, then his neck and his collar and his chest, lower and lower until it's a miracle he can string a sentence together. "Alright," he agrees breathlessly, cigarette smouldering in th ashtray to his left. "But only if after that you do the same whilst I suck you off in bed."

Richard's hands grip his hips tighter as he bits his thigh, "Deal."

"Do you want to stay in service?" Thomas asks- being in a relationship makes him remember what he found so difficult the last times he was (Christ that was before the War, he _has_ gotten old): the minefield of gauging just what is off limits entirely, what things they can only talk about after sex, what topics they can only broach when completely drunk and what is only discussed when they're apologising after an argument. A minefield. Sneaking a glance over and seeing how handsome Richard is in the pinks andoranges of the October sunset, he's reminded that each explosion and bombshell only plunges him deeper in love.

It's not a situation Thomas can bring himself to be miffed about. Not in the slightest.

"I want to stay where I am now" he stretches out his fingers and takes the cigarette from Thomas's mouth.

"You mean you've no desire to be the Page Of TheBackstairs?"

He laughs, "Christ no. But why not stick around where I am? I've a cushy job and I know it."

"Mmm," he can feel the lingering heat of Richard's mouth on the cigarette as he takes it back and puts it in his own mouth for a drag. "Like you said though... world's changing. Might not be a job for you soon."

He waves the thought away easily, "Nah- England'll always keep a king and queen, and the king and queen will never go without servants. Reckon I'm safe for a good while yet."

"Until you're old and grey?"

"Yeah..." he tilts his head up and fixes him with a stare," Will you be around to see me when I'm old and grey?" The question is earnest and doubtful in a way that makes Thomas's heart wrench in a way he knows he mustn'tshow right now.

"Hmm," he pretends to consider the question seriously. "Why not? I think you'd be a rather handsome silver fox."

It's almost time for them to leave when it happens. They've had sex in the shower (twice the second time long enough for the water to go cold) and gone down to dinner together where they put their knees very close under the tablecloth which was designed for the purpose of hiding_just that_ and then come back upstairs to wash up before going back out into their lives again.

They had to veto another joint shower because they both know what it's turn into and they'll miss the train and Thomas is thumbing through the inn's copy of _The Great Gatsby_when he hears a noise the clanking old pipes can't conceal. Immediately he is off the bed and at the threshold of the bathroom door. Huddled in on himself under the spray of the shower, Richard buries his face in his hands and doesn't emerge when Thomas turns the water off. _Bird boned_ he thinks, toeing off his shoes and crouching down as best he can next to him, towel in hand. He flinches away when the rough fabric comes into contact with his skin, which in turn causes Thomas to start and hit his elbow on the wall and curse. Richard flinches in the opposite direction and his trembling limbs finally lose their balance and he falls into a sitting position with a thump. From the water bleeding through his socks, Thomas can tell the hot water ran out a while ago and he feels guilty, for a moment before he can clamp down on the feeling and focus on what's important again. _I should've realised sooner_. The tower round his shoulders seems to have the opposite effect wo what he intended as the shaking increases- he's been sobbing this whole time but now every so often one is audible around his hands and it just makes him shake harder. _Corporal Barrow_ has seen a lot of this sort of thing but _Thomas_ is nearly out of his mind with worry and doesn't know what to do. He tries anyway, because he has to in the same way he has to breathe.

"Shush," he murmurs, hoping the walls are sound proof. "It's alright, it'll stop soon. Just- just breathe in and out."

"Can't," he chokes out, fingers twisting in his hair until his knuckles turn white. The tiles are echoing with the sound of how hard it is for him to breathe- wheezing, too-fast gasps that don't sound the least bit healthy.

"You can," Thomas promises, carefully untangling his fingers before he can rip his hair out and on constant lookout for any sign that Richard wants him to stop touching him.

"Can't," he repeats; when he glances up his face is white and his breathing's got so fast it whistles in his chest.

"Ye you _can_, Richard- do it- see!" he praises as he coaches him through an inhale, "You've been breathing your whole life, so don't give me that excuse. Now- very good, see, do it again. And again. That's it..."

How long it takes he doesn't know exactly, but soon enough their breaths slap the cold tiles at the same pace again. Thomas half-carries him to the bed, dries him off and gets him halfway dressed with a hot cup of tea in front of him. Night has completely fallen outside the window though it's not so late either of them has missed their train. Perhaps knowing this has a hand in how he manages to stay calm or maybe that's just the effect Richard has on him, no matter what state he's in.

"I expect you're wondering," Richard begins- he's recovering quicker than Thomas has ever done on the few occasions he's suffered the same thing and for that his admiration only grows. "What that was all about."

"You don't have to tell me," he says too quickly and then regrets it. "I mean- obviously you can- I care, I do, but you don't have to... was it the war?"

"No." A remorseful smile."Although that certainly didn't ... I've always had- _that. _Ever since I was a ever really causes them I just sometimes see or hear or think something and I-" his hand clenches into a fist on top of his thigh "-all of a sudden I can't breathe."

"Oh." Thomas lets the ticking of the clock speak for him, at a loss on what he's meant to say or do next.

Richard takes his silence with a scoff and turns to stare out the window, though Thomas knows with the net curtains drawn he can't be seeing much of anything. "You can say it's pathetic, if that's what you think. This was- usually they're much worse than what just happened and I understand if you don't want to be with me anymore but-"

"I don't think that!" Mindful of the coffee table and the tea, he kneels on the rug in front of Richard and clasps his hand in his and cups his cheek, trying to put across all he feels whilst he sifts through his brain for the words.

"That isn't... this is just who you are, and- I mean, I've not read the bloody bible for years, but God said 'come as you are', didn't he? I want you, even if you means _this_, because – because, well, because I just want you. I suppose- I suppose it's just as if you were allergic to something, isn't it? You're allergic to something and you have a reaction; that's not a bad thing. It doesn't change how I see you- it's just you and you're still _you_, my knowledge of you just gets deeper."

When he finishes he feels breathless and embarrassed at how desperate and high his voice has gotten and Richard- Richard's looking at him like he's something wonderful. He bites his lip and pulls him down for kiss before either of them can start crying.

They don't talk about it for the rest of the night but that's okay. They have to share the same train before Thomas gets off at York and Richard sits next to him on the guise of showing him something that's caught his eye in the paper. It's just them in the carriage and their shoulders are touching. It reminds him of when he was under butler still, poring newspapers trying to find a job. Only his shoulders aren't slumped this time and it's a lot better with two.

A week before he is to leave he loses two hours of sleep trying to write to Richard. He hasn't told him or Lord Grantham or anyone but Carson- and isn't that ironic, Carson keeping a secret for him?

He doesn't know what to say.

_Will he be angry I didn't tell him?_

Every other part of the puzzle is in place- in seven days he will wake up before anyone and leave a note for Miss Baxter in her sewing box with his forwarding address and walk out the (front)door and never come back. Carson will take his place as butler for breakfast and it'll be the first anyone knows of the matter and by then he will be miles away. It feels criminal, sneaking away in the dead of night without a word to the people around him who- for better or worse- he has lived with for as good as twenty years.

But then, he is a criminal, isn't he? He is a criminal and he owes them nothing. If he was feeling particularly spiteful, he'd make a list of all the people one by one and all that they have ever done to him- a list he's sure would be exceeded by all he has done to them in turn.

He isn't that person anymore, is he?

He doesn't know. Just knows that the world is changing and if he doesn't leave now he'll be the last butler of Downton Abbey and he'll wither and die with it and fade into death meaning less than he ever did. Leave that to Carson, if that's what he wants. That's ironic too- all these years spent fighting to be butler and it isn't what he wants at all.

_What do you want then?_ The voice in his sounds a lot like his mother- not kind, not the way a mother should perhaps be, yet still wanting him to make the best of himself, which, in the absence of anything else suitable, had to be kindness.

He wants to be Thomas Barrow and he is a criminal if that's what being in love makes him and he owes them nothing.

_My Dear Mr Ellis, _

_As of a week today any further correspondence should be sent to my new address:_

_Second Flat, 17 SouthRoad, Forest Hill, London. _

_Yours- T._

Nothing awaits Thomas in London except his job as a clockmaker and the isolated flat he rents from a deaf old widow on the recommendation of his new boss.

Living alone is- well, in all honesty he thought it would freeing and it i_s_, it is. He can get up whenever he pleases on weekends or go out in the middle of the night if he wants. Sleep becomes his friend again, which it hasn't been in along time; now he dreams without screaming himself awake most nights. No word has come from Richard and the fact he can stretch out fully and not be too big for the bed almost makes up for this. Thomas' things are strewn all over the place whilst he works out where they all should go and every night when he gets home from work the sight send a thrill through him. This is his home and the only person he has to let in is the landlord, and she' too old to manage the stairs.

Still no letter from Richard.

Thomas is _not_ disappointed every time he collects the post, because he is _not_ thinking about Richard at all.

He is- he thinks about Richard all the time and where he's gone and why he moved here in the first place if he wasn't subconsciously trying to be closer to him.

It's _Memorial Day_ the first time he has a nightmare in London. The worst part of it is – up until that point, it's sort of the happiest day of his life. The owner let him run the shop today, gave him thisnews yesterday with a look in his eyes that Thomas recognises is the War, didn't need to ask, and it's been a quiet day both in the shop and in his head. Even at eleven o clock he didn't _realise_, deep in the mechanism of a grandfather clock that's older than he is and that the boss is just completely stumped on how to fix.

Thomas tries and Thomas fixes it and Thomas can't wait for the boss to come in tomorrow morning and see that he's fixed it. He also made a friend who isn'tRichard or one of Richard' yesterday. He couldn'tquite bring himself to leave Richard's pendant on the bedside table but he didn't think aboutthe weight in his pocket all day, either, and... Same difference.

Everything is fine, so why, when he steps out of the shop at five o clock and starts in the direction of home, does he feel like he needs a nap the minute he gets in the door?

_Old age_ Thomas snorts to himself, hanging up his hat but not taking his coat off as he slumps into the armchair closest to the fire. _Just five minutes_ he decides, eyes already shut and mind already asleep. _Five minutes and then see about making dinner_.

At first the dream isnot a dream- he is standing, in a club a bar a restaurant a cafe, in a place where people come and eat and talk and kiss and he is standing still unable to smell or feel any of what is in front of him. People bustle in the very background and it's when a couple sweep past him tangled in each other's arms and dancing that things start to happen. The noise of it all grows and the people aped up. At one point a midnight black horse gallops through the room with terrified eyes. Everything speeds up until it's all a blur and Thomas is dizzy with it- he breathes in and inhales the oxygen like a knee to the chest.

Waking is no relief- it has been thirty minutes and he is sweating in his coat and the cold air hits his skin like a thousand tiny knives when he tries to take it off.

Staying here alone is a dangerous choice, so he shakily makes his way down the stairs without checking to see if he's locked the door behind him and- at a loss at what else to do- goes and buys some more cigarettes. He's running out. He's run out of bread and most other foodstuffs in the cupboard, but he doesn't buy anything except cigarettes. It takes a shameful amount of time to realise that he's ten yards behind Richard as he turns onto South Road, yet Thomas makes no move to walk any faster. Without breaking stride, his (gloved) hand grasps hold of the pendant he keeps in his pocket and brings the cold chain to his lips.

Richard's obviously on his way to Thomas' flat, hurrying on towards number seventeen without pause or even bothering to look both ways before he crosses the road. As he disappears up the stairs, Thomas breaks into a run, giddy with all the feelings bursting into his heart at once.

"Richard!" he starts to call at the same time as he gets to the top of the stairs and starts to bang on the door and yell "Thomas!"

He turns round and his face is a picture, "Thomas!"

"Hello."

"Hello. I was just- I'm sorry I didn't write back to you, the last leg of the visit's always the busiest but I still should have- and when I got your letter... Michael swapped his night off with me and I had to come, all the way here I was thinking maybe 'what if it's just their home for the London Season?' and then I realised it's not it's- it's _your_ home and- and- you've left them, haven't you? Left service?"

"For good. Let's go inside. I can... make tea."

The porch cramped and he feels Richard's breath hut his neck as he unlocks the door and hardly has the outside world fallen away when Richard's arms are round his waist and he's spinning him round until his back hits the wall "You've really left service?" the way his mouth moves- it's like Thomas is underwater or hearing him from a very long way away. "How? What are you doing at the moment? Do you live here all by yourself?"

"For good. Forever, really. My dad was a clockmaker so I had a bit of know-how- I had to go to York, 'bout a month ago, to sort something out and I saw the advert for a clockmaker here and... I lost my head, I suppose. No other way of putting it. Went the same day to London and left Downton a month later without saying goodbye to anyone. As for- well, yes, I live here alone. Do... do you like it?"

Richard's eyes are dancing as he looks round the (modest) hallway. "I love it," he says, not just talking about the furniture. He turns back to face him completely, one of those soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth that always make Thomas feel like saying a prayer. "I'm glad you're here."

"You are?"

Disappointment sours his next inhale, seeping from his lungs out into his veins. He waits for the next sentence. _You're closer. We can fuck all the time now. I'll save a fortune not having to take a train to come see you._ He leans so their mouths are nearly joined, the way he always does before he kisses him and brings a hand up to cup his cheek the way he's learned Thomas likes to show affection, "I'm glad, I'm glad. You look so happy." The next thing that happens _is_ the kiss, so Thomas can't actually see the smile on his face but he can feel it, even kissing him senseless.

When it ends, their mouths are pink. Like roses. Richard rests his forehead on Thomas's collarbone and breathes out, "You're not busy tonight, are you? I know I've come unexpected, but I just had to see you."

"No, no plans. I'm... glad you're here."

"_How_ glad?"

"Let me show you," he purrs, pushing him backwards towards the bedroom and undoing his buttons one by one- he's always so prim and proper and neat and Thomas adores removing every piece of clothing one by one until he can kiss the hard body beneath. He pushes him onto the bed and pulls his own clothes off, tossing them wherever he wants until he gets to his shirt; before taking it off he carefully places the pendant on the bedside table. Richard's eyes follow the silver as it glints dully, "You kept it?"

"Of course."

These are the last coherent words of the evening.

If Thomas thought things would be perfect after that the universe is punishing him for t. Not that he thought _everything_ would be perfect- actually, yeah, he did. Thomas Barrow is a bloody idiot that way. _Stupid_ he curses himself scrubbing angrily at his eyes. "'M so stupid." Their first argument, all his fault, and now he's sitting in the November afternoon on the steps up to his flat, trying to remember what the argument was about as he waits for Richard to come back.

He'll come back- he's left his things here; but will he come back for _Thomas_? "'M so fucking stupid."

"Thought we had a deal you wouldn't bad mouth yourself anymore?"

He looks up and Richard is there the same way the sun is. His eyes are red- not for any passerby to notice, only Thomas.

"Thought we had the same deal?" before he can chicken out, he presses on, "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry."

"I'm sorry, it was my fault."

"How was it your fault?" Thomas couldn't be more lost if he was in the Arctic.

"Carried on when I could see you didn't want to talk about it, didn't I?"

"Yes, but that was..." _Still my fault. Please don't go._ A queer, sorrowful looks comes over his face, as if he knows what Thomas was about to day without him even having to say it. "Christ, you break my heart sometimes."

"That would imply you were in love with me."

Finally, _finally_, Richard comes and sits next to him, on the covered stone steps that lead up to his flat, covered on all sides wand lets them be 'in public' but safe at the same time. "Yes, it would, wouldn't it?"

Thomas realises what's he's just said and then the reply hits him full force. He doesn't know how to respond. Then he looks into soft grey eyes and he does. "Well," he begins, reaching for his hand- it's the same one he's clutching the pendant in and he makes sure to hold tightly enough the edges dig into their palms. "Keeping _this_ implies much the same of me, doesn't it?"

Their first argument- from an impartial perspective- was both and neither of their faults. Living alone is a novelty and a freedom that Thomas has found even a lover can occasionally feel like they're imposing on and it rankles him both that he is being _imposed on_ and at his audacity to be annoyed by this. They ask questions that can only be asked when half-dead after sex: have you ever broken a bone, do you want to go for dinner Saturday after next, why do you like to be the one _underneath_ more than any other man I know?

They give answers like they've suddenly been given all the money in the word and are now handing it out to poor children: no, yes, don't take this the wrong way, luv, but sometimes doing it face down... makes me feel as if you could be anyone and I've had the liberty of getting with as many blokes I like.

He takes it the wrong way, as expected. They do not argue, as dreaded. They do not _argue_, as such. But there is a silence which is not happy and attempts to explain with better words cannot quite fill it.

Richard has another... reaction, whilst they make breakfast. A bad one, this time. The eggs are ruined, but that's not important.

Later, long enough afterwards the two events don't appear to be connected (which Richard does on purpose) he asks or brings up or jokes that he could sneak Thomas into the palace if he wanted to.

_What palace? _But he already knows and is trying to stall for time to think of a polite refusal as his stomach curls up and dies like a baby deer on the floor of a forest.

Richard sees this in the space behind his eyes and tries to offer again, or insist, or offer more insistently in a clumsy attempt to pay back all he owes for Thomas being so understanding and not caring that he is not always good at functioning as a person. Thomas rebuts in a clumsy attempt, because he wants to refuse but unlike all other times he does not mean for this to _hurt_. These clumsy attempts embarrass them both and they yell silly, silly things both to hide and to communicate they are feeling silly, silly things.

It's all sorted out in the end. Before lunch, even. This is their first argument and will not be their last. This is the first argument Thomas does not worry will leave him alone forever.

"You're so good to me," Richard mumbles as his eyes slide shut.

Thomas freezes, then pulls the quilt higher up their shoulders and holds the warm body closer to his chest. "Only as good as you are to me."

"Better," Richard insists to be contrary. "You're so _nice_ might've had a hundred men before you, but you're gonna be the last one."

And Thomas has the perfect opportunity to tell them both it's the alcohol talking, but he knows that it is not. "What if I die in a horrible accident?"

Laughing, Richard pokes him in the ribs, "Alright. _Unless_ you die in a horrible accident. But I bet it'd take me years and years to get over you."

Thomas thinks that's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to him.

"If you could go on holiday anywhere, where would you go?"

An opportunity they'll never be able to afford even if they get it might not be the best distraction from the fate of the four perverts plastered all over the front page but it puts a small, contemplating smile on his face and, thus, has done the job.

"I'll start- Spain, it's hot there."

"Really, if I could go anywhere, why not pick a cruise and go everywhere?"

"Because being practical is _bor-ing_."

"Hmm. I've a cousin Bombay- suppose that's as good a place to start as any. America was alright, but I wouldn't go back."

"No?"

"Too bid. Also found I don't like elevators."

Another laugh. "All I saw of America was the back passages of the prince's summer house, so I can't comment. Spain'd be good- hot and close enough to home and away. You can get a boat to anywhere in Spain, so my dad says."

"I'd only be interested in a boat that took me to you."

"You old sap. I love you too."

_Mr Barrow__, Thomas_ I'd apologise for not writing sooner but you left me with no indication if it'd be welcome or not. I do hope you are well and that you are still at this address. The papers-even in Yorkshire the news still reaches us and I saw. We are all well here, and I thought as much as I read the article and just needed to know you are well too. Certainly I know how I wish you were: well, happy and in 'good company'. If not: is there anything I can do? _Phyllis Baxter_.

_Miss Baxter_\- Thank you. Yes I am well and happy and still at the same address... the company is excellent and the job well-paid. I need for nothing at present but for life to go on as it is- should I find myself so blessed, I don't think I'll ever want anything ever again. Happy Glad to hear you are all well. No plans to move at the present time, if ever, but should there be, I promise to will send you the new address. Likewise should you ever need anything I shall endeavour to help you the way you always helped me. –_Thomas_.

The warmth seeps through his thin shirt where Richard presses up against his back and Thomas pauses for a minute in writing to relish in the feeling. In the kitchen, the clock chimes midnight and he absently flips the calendar to the new day, realising without a start that he's now been in London for six weeks and in another two it will be Christmas. Form where he is reading over his shoulder, he feels Richard's mouth as he breaks into a smile "I am glad you're happy," he murmurs, half asleep and hair mussed- it's not unusual for him to fall asleep well before Thomas does and not uncommon for him to wake up pining for his lover and convince him to come to bed solely for the pleasure of holding each other. He won't go back to sleep, Thomas knows, until he has company. He has no plans of making him wait.

He made yet another friend who isn't Richard's today- is it pathetic that he's proud of himself?

Had he known eleven years ago that getting shot through the hand would hurt every winter, he would still have held up that lighter. Every time Thomas has to go outside, though, he wonders what possessed him to take a job where his hands are so necessary.

The way the nights are so dark now he's almost grateful for winter, so he doesn't have to see the ugly scarring when he takes off his glove for bed all the nights Richard isn't there. Richard has no qualms about kissing the ugly wound and kisses him the same way he would hold Thomas' hand in public if he was allowed.

Even if Richard was here, they are not allowed.

In the paper years and years ago- this was when he and Jimmy still saw each other every day- there was a column about the pandemic of unhappy women. Suffering so much, their good husbands had to send them off to clinics to earn how to smile again. _A female problem_. Jimmy sneered at everything and it was a surprise when he didn't this time. "I think that's what my mum had," he told Thomas, in Thomas's room, quietly. All Thomas could do in return for this knowledge was to light the cigarette he'd been about to smoke and give it to Jimmy.

Years and years later- this when he was under butler- he came across the same word again in a conversation he shouldn't have been listening to. _A female problem_. Some form of weak melancholia that's endemic to weak minds. It had sounded a lot like how Thomas felt, day after day.

Years and years later that brings him to now, he is happy and he recognises that this feeling is still there: a black cat curled into his ribs. Managing is a lot easier, and it helps that he has realised it's _not_ replaced his heart, just squeezes it every tightly sometimes. But sometimes... it's still hard and he still knows it's there. And he had really hoped now he was happy it would slink off into the night the same way he did and just... go away.

Looking in the mirror, he remembers O'Brien (this was back when they still smoked together) and nearly laughs. "Thomas Barrow this is who you are," he murmurs. Meeting his own eyes in the mirror is a struggle.

The next day, it is not so much of a struggle.

The day after, it is more a struggle than it's ever been.

It's a wave and, Thomas has taken up until now to realise, it comes and goes. It's inevitable but he's not drowning. He's not drowning. He remembers someone (O'Brien? Probably) told him when he first became a hall boy _the house always wins_. Well, fuck the house, because it didn't beat him. Nearly, but not quite. As he gets ready for work he remembers one of the tunes they used to sing in the trenches at the same time as he remembers his medic training: the human body is naturally buoyant and will always try and float in water just as the refrains start to play in his ghostly heart: _we're here because we're here because we're here because we're here_

"Thomas? Thomas!"

He wakes up being called a name he doesn't quite recognise and then sobs when he realises he wasn't really sleeping at all. Electricity splices up his limbs and jumps in arcs across his bones and he shakes with the pain, trying in vain to bite the insides of his cheeks before he risks breaking a tooth. The moon looms up in his vision and he flinches so hard, he cracks his head on the headboard and blinks stars from his eyes. It is Richard. Thomas can't stop shaking. He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

"Thomas?" Funny, he's never heard Richard sound scared before. He should be scared over _him_\- it's not, it's not right. "Christ Thomas."

He knows what he looks like to an untrained eye; both in the war and in the clinic he saw them use electroshock therapy on other men and it's not a pretty sight, a man trying to shake off his skin like a wet dog.

"'M- 'm alright. Don't…." Don't what? _Pity me. Ask me any questions. Call a doctor. Leave me._

A big, strong hand presses against the small of his back, "Tell me what to do."

Thomas obeys, or at least he thinks he does- his mouth feels like it's moving- the rushing in his ears and the shaking means he can't tell if he's making noise or sense, but he obeys. The next thing he knows, Richard is helping him sit up and lean against him; his hand is still on his back and Thomas tries to match his breathing to the slow strokes up and down. It doesn't help the shaking but then, nothing does. He just has to wait for that to die down. Depending on what time it is, that may even be before he leaves for work. A cigarette's placed between his lips and he inhales gratefully, the smoke sweeping into his body like the hand of a medic closing eyes on a cooling body. When he breathes out, he buries his face in Richard's neck for a brief pause and then starts to unfold his shaking limbs and immediately he feels Richard's own fingers on his body trying to help. There is so much tenderness in his touch it makes Thomas want to cry.

He doesn't cry. He pleads some broken, stuttered words and the next time he comes to his senses they are walking into the kitchen. Thomas lets go of his hand and dry heaves into the sink but doesn't let go of his cigarette. Richard touches the back of his neck and then holds his other hand as he puts the kettle on the stove and lights the gas ring one-handed.

As if separate from himself, Thomas watches his fingers tremble against the metal draining board until it crushes out the glow of his cigarette. Perhaps he makes a noise to this effect, because he feels that big hand at the small of his back again and leans into it with a trust that scares him. "'M alright," he tells Richard before retching again- nothing comes up and he feels the winter air at the back of his throat and takes a drag off the unlit cigarette again just to get rid of the taste of his own mouth.

"If you say so."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." "Still- 'm sorry."

"You don't need to… for fuck's sake, Thomas, you're _shaking_."

He can think of no other response than "Sorry."

In lieu of answer, he pulls a chair out and helps him set and then takes the kettle off the stove- it's not boiled yet, but it'll be hot enough and Thomas won't make him stay next to him if he doesn't want to be next to him.

When there's two cups of tea in front of them and Richard slides into the chair next to him, Thomas wishes his kitchen chairs had arms on because he's shaking so heard he might fall out onto the floor otherwise. "Sorry," he says again. The amount of times he's apologised this evening, it's probably no longer worth anything.

Richard snatches his cigarette away, relights it, takes a drag. There's a look on his face like he's just seen a murder. "You're still- shit, Thomas, shit, when I first woke up I thought you were having a seizure, what _happened_?"

He focuses on his hands in front of him, presses them flat to the smooth wood of the kitchen table, watches them shake, knuckles knocking against the wood and the bullet wound as ugly as ever. At the clinic, they had a specially made chair with restraints for the wrists and ankles. "Did- did- that was the electroshock therapy."

He follows the line of his mouth as he frowns, confusion writ all over his face. "Therapy? You mean like for shell shock, after the war?"

Anger sparks to life in his stomach but it's not anger- it never was- it's always been anger to hide something else. "Not the bloody German- I did it, I fucking did it" and the dam breaks and everything tumbles out- it's like he _is_ vomiting, in a way: just as necessary and just as disgusting. Wars and schemes and fathers and therapy and suicide and fear- fear- fear- until he's shaking again, shaking like a fucking leaf.

Once it's all done, Richard suggests he drinks some of his tea. Thomas shakes his head. "No, I can't. I might throw up again." After a pause, he adds, "Sorry." After another, he asks, "Are you angry?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"Because… _because I'm not a good man and I should have told you before you fell in love with me_.

Warmth engulfs his hand and then his shoulders and strong arms tighten round him and a hand brushes his cheek tenderly- Thomas has never been so grateful to be touched and nearly falls on the floor to hug him back. "I'm not angry."

He swallows, "Loving me isn't easy."

"Well, do you find it easy loving me?"

"No," he admits. "Loving you is the hardest thing I've ever done- it's how I know I'm doing the right thing."

"There you go then." He holds him even tighter. "You're not my easy choice, Thomas. Maybe not the perfect choice, either. But you're my right choice and I'm yours and… I think we just have to keep choosing each other."

Thomas sinks even further into his arms and presses a kiss to his neck, "Will you ever stop choosing me?"

Richard leans down and kisses the top of his head, "I don't think so."

_1967_

"Have you seen the paper?"

"I've seen it. About time, too."

"They'll let us get married next."

"We've been married forty years already, you idiot."


End file.
